


Deliver My Soul

by apliddell



Series: Hidden Fires [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Assassin Mary Morstan, BBC Sherlock s3, Episode Fix-It: s03e03 His Last Vow, Evil Mary Morstan, Fluff and Angst, Gun Violence, HLV, His Last Vow, Hospitals, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mind Palace John Watson, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 10:49:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15169064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: A word to the wise, should any of you require the services of either of us. I will solve your murder, but it takes John Watson to save your life. Trust me on that; I should know. He’s saved mine so many times and in so many ways.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Loudest_Subtext_in_Television](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loudest_Subtext_in_Television/gifts).



Mary Watson half-smiles at me. Her  _ I’ll Talk Him Round _ half smile, and so of course it’ll be okay somehow. We’ll talk him round. 

 

Pain explodes in my ribs, and the room shimmers and shudders and suddenly I’m standing in a dank changing room, the sound of dripping water around me. John stands in front of me and speaks urgently as soon as I meet his eye, “You are not going to die. I won’t let you. But you could, so you have to help me save you, okay?”

 

“John?”

 

John steps forward, his hands outstretched, “Listen to me, Sherlock. You’ve been shot. Just like me. It’s not like in films, being shot. With a big spurt of blood, and you go flying back. You stay still, and the bullet pushes through you. You have a few seconds of consciousness left. What’s the first thing that could kill you?”

 

Mouth is numb and slow, “Blood loss.”

 

John nods encouragement, “Right, so. Is the bullet still in you? If it is, you’ve got to fall back. The bullet will act as a cork, holding the blood inside your body.”

 

Scrabble for my gun catalog and try to match the one I saw, but John shakes his head, “There’s a mirror behind you, Sherlock. Did it break? Did you hear it break?”

 

Shake my head, and the room shakes violently along with me, “The mirror’s in tact.”

 

“Fall backward,” John orders. “Fall now.” 

 

The floor rises to meet me, and there’s another bone-jarring jolt of pain. The world goes black and silent for a moment. 

 

Through the blackness, John is calling for me. Can’t move. And then there he is at my side. I’m lying on the ground at the foot of a spiral staircase, and John is crouching beside me. 

 

There’s an alarm blaring so that I almost can’t hear him when he speaks, “I’m coming to save you, Sherlock. I’ll be there so soon, but you’ve got to stay alive til I get to you. What else could kill you? Think for me, please.”

 

Manage a gasp, “Shock!”

 

“Shock, that’s right. Brilliant. You’re so clever. I need you to calm down. Can you breathe with me?” he coaxes. “That’s right, you’re doing beautifully. I’m coming for you, Sherlock; I’m coming.” The blaring alarm fades, and John’s soft voice above me comes again, “Without shock, you’re going to feel the pain.”

 

As if on cue, the pain seizes me so that I can’t even breathe to scream. 

 

“You’re doing so well,” John soothes, squeezes my fingers between hands I can’t feel, because they aren’t really there. “So brave. The pain can’t kill you, Sherlock.”

 

“How did you do it, John? When you were shot?”

 

John’s voice sounds distant now; his shape is blurring, “I can’t tell you Sherlock; I’m not here. I’m out there. Up there. If you want to ask me, you’ve got to come and ask me.”

 

“I can’t, John.” Look at the staircase looming behind him, and squeeze my eyes shut against a fresh wave of pain, “I can’t do it.” 

 

“Please,” John begs, his voice warping. “Please, you’ve got to try. One more miracle. For me, please. Don’t do this. Don’t be dead.” 

 

Push myself to sitting almost before I know what I’m doing. John is crouching beside me again in an instant. He throws my arm over his shoulder and heaves me to my feet. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs in my ear, his voice cutting through my groans as the pain grabs me again. “You can do it. I’m right here.” John half-shoves, half-carries me to the staircase, and step by agonising step, we climb it together. 

  
  


…

 

When Sherlock woke from the anaesthesia, he looked into my eyes for a long moment, his own eyes brilliant, arresting as ever. He seemed not to know he was awake at first, then suddenly gasped and squirmed in his bed as if to drag himself out of it. 

 

“John!”

 

“I’m here!” I caught his hand, mindful of the IV. 

 

“John! I mean. I’ve got to.” Sherlock stopped struggling and looked about him, “Oh. I’m alive.”

 

I squawked a rather hysterical giggle, “You are.”

 

“John,” Sherlock pressed my hand. “I’ve got to tell you something. Something. Something unbelievable. Something awful. But you’ve got to believe me, John. You’ve got to. You’re in terrible danger.”

 

“Mary,” I said, trying not to squeeze his hand too tightly. Mine was trembling, and it was difficult not to clench it. “Mary shot you.”

 

Sherlock nodded and turned his head, but I saw his tears fall anyway, “I’m sorry, John.”

 

“ _ You  _ are?” My voice was thick. 

 

“I didn’t know what she was. Truly I didn’t. I’m sorry. I should have seen it, and I didn’t. I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry.”

 

“Hey,” I tried to make my voice gentle, but it was hoarse with the effort of steadying it. “It’s okay, shhh, it’s all right.”

 

“I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock dragged at my trembling hand, his tears turning to sobs. “I’m sorry.” 

 

My voice would only come in croaks and wisps. I squeezed Sherlock’s hand, rubbed his shoulder, and he wept against my arm. 

 

Presently Sherlock sniffled himself into silence and looked up at me, “Lucky thing I’m on this IV, all the fluids I’m losing.”

 

I laughed, “I’m pretty sure it’s not the done thing to laugh in these situations.”

 

“Mm, but we hate the done thing,” Sherlock drummed his fingertips against my hand. “Where is she?”

 

“Your brother’s people picked her up before you’d even come out of surgery. Lucky for her,” I added darkly. 

 

Sherlock shut his eyes, “Mycroft proves to be not entirely good for nothing.”

 

“Good for at least one thing,” I agreed. 

 

“Perhaps I’ll start a list.” Sherlock opened his eyes, “Lucky for her?” 

 

“If she gets anywhere near you again, I’ll shoot her.” I hadn’t meant to tell him that. Sherlock only looked at me, his eyes widening, “She nearly took you from me.”

 

Sherlock shut his eyes, “She didn’t though. You saved my life.”

 

“The surgeon saved your life.”

 

“You saved it first.”

 

I couldn’t help smiling at the increased pressure on my hand, “How would you even know what happened? You were unconscious.”

 

“I get shot in the company of my trauma surgeon best friend and live to fight another day? Not a difficult deduction.” Sherlock opened his eyes to bounce an eyebrow at me.

 

“Call an ambulance, pressure on the wound.” I was flushing for some reason, “Anyone can do that.”

 

“Horrible manners to argue with me on my deathbed, John.”

 

“This isn’t your deathbed.”

 

“No.” Sherlock smiled, “Because you saved my life. Let me swim in my flood of gratitude, John.”

 

“You’re swimming in that morphine drip is what you’re doing,” I could have kicked myself.

 

A little wave of hurt flickered over Sherlock’s face. He shut his eyes and let go of my hands, “I suppose I’m making an ass of myself again. I think I may be about to go asleep. Don’t be offended; it isn’t the company.”

 

“I won’t be offended. I suppose I should call in the doctor, anyway.” 

 

Sherlock opened his eyes again, “Are you leaving me, John?”

 

“You want me to stay?” 

 

He nodded, “Of course, John. Always.” 

 

“All right, then. I’ll stay.” 

 

…

 

The second time I wake in hospital, I am alone. The room is dim, and John is not sat next to my bed, ready to take my hand.  

 

“John?” lapse into a coughing fit (mouth is like cotton wadding). The coughing makes my chest burn, which makes me cough harder. Takes a bit to get myself under control. 

 

“Your Doctor Watson has gone home for some much needed rest. Under protest, mind you,” comes Mycroft’s cool voice from nearby. 

 

Blink to clear away the cobwebs and find Mycroft leaned against the window opposite my bed. Rain lashes down against the pane, and there’s a little halo of moisture surrounding the umbrella that he’s tapping on the linoleum. 

 

Groan at the sight of him and try and roll over, but I’m anchored in one position by the IVs plugged into my left arm. 

 

With a quiet sigh, Mycroft actually leaves his place at the window and approaches my bed. Wish I had a shirt on. Even a hospital smock would do me. Pull the thin blanket to my chin and glare up at my brother with as much venom as I can muster. 

 

Mycroft drops the hand he seems to have been almost about to rest on the edge of my bed. “Sherlock,” his voice is an anxious murmur, his eyes clouded with a concern I remember from my junkie days. The first round. “I’m sorry.”

 

Scowl, “What for?”

 

“For all of it. For electing myself your protector and.” Mycroft draws a very shaky breath and passes a hand over his face as if he can force his features into placid obedience. “Mrs. Watson is very snug in prison, soon to be extradited to Belarus. Magnussen was arrested this morning.”

 

Raise an eyebrow, “This morning? What for?”

 

“Tax evasion, what else?”

 

Snort, “Of course.”

 

The silence curdles between us for a moment until Mycroft bursts out, “Your loss would break my heart!”

 

Gape at him in shock. It isn’t a trick; he really means it (ears reddening, eyes glistening and widened to stop the tears falling). “Well. That. That matters less than what actually happened, doesn’t it?”

 

Mycroft nods slowly, his mouth tightening. 

 

“You knew, didn’t you? What she was. You knew from the beginning. You had to have known.” He doesn’t need to answer. I can see the truth in his face, and he knows I can. “Why did you never…” My own eyes are stinging and pricking, and I turn my face into my pillow and watch the tears slip down my nose and pool on my pillow. “You knew what she was, and you let her marry him. She could have.” Sniff hard, and I’m so furious and  _ lonely _ that I don’t even care he’s seeing me cry (first time in ten years)(junkie days again)(first round). “Get out of my room; I don’t want to see you. Get out. Now.” Mycroft waits a moment, but I don’t look up from my pillow. 

 

Presently there’s a soft clunk as Mycroft sets something heavy for its size on the bedside table. 

 

“Good night, brother. I. I will be in touch.” 

 

Squeeze my eyes shut and don’t open them until the door has shut behind him. It’s my phone he’s left on the night table. Can just reach it from the bed. Swipe it open at once. 

 

…

 

Don’t wake up.  -SH 

 

I mean don’t let me wake you, if you’re asleep.  -SH 

 

If not asleep, text back.  -SH 

  
  


I’m not asleep. 

  
  


Was hoping you might be, though :) 

  
  


Are you all right? 

  
  


Fine.  -SH 

  
  


Asterisk.  -SH

  
  


Right, stupid question. 

  
  


I don’t mind. It’s very John Watson of you.  -SH 

 

Stupid questions?

  
  


Asking if I’m all right. -SH 

  
  


It’s a nice quality, John. Doctorly. I don’t complain of it.  -SH 

 

Well that’s very generous of you. 

 

How many near-death experiences does it take for a man to allow he appreciates these doctorly qualities? -SH 

  
  


Well this one will have to have done the trick, as you aren’t allowed any more. 

  
  


I appreciate your doctorly qualities, John. -SH 

  
  


It’s nice to be appreciated. 

  
  


When do I see you again? Are you coming by tomorrow? -SH 

  
  


Of course I’m coming by tomorrow. 

 

I’ll do you a deal. 

 

You go to sleep now and get yourself a solid 10 hours sleep, and I’ll see you when you wake up in the morning. 

 

10?? 10 is unheard of. 8. -SH 

  
  


10\. I’m not budging.

  
  


All right. 9. -SH

  
  


10 AND I’m going to make you have a sleep after breakfast as well. 

  
  


This isn’t how negotiating works, John. -SH 

  
  


It is when I do it. 

  
  


Counter-proposal: I go to sleep right now, and so do you. I can sleep if you’re also asleep. That way I know I’m not missing anything. -SH 

  
  


You drive a hard bargain. 

  
  


Yes, I’ve actually had a knighthood for the hardness of my bargains. Sir Hard Bargain. -SH 

  
  


Universally impressive, you are. I accept. 

  
  


Good. No funny business. I shall be very cross, if you don’t uphold your end. -SH 

  
  


Ditto ditto.

  
  


Good night, Sherlock. 

  
  


Good night, John. -SH 


	2. Chapter 2

John does indeed turn up at the crack of visiting hours, but he brings along Molly and Mrs Hudson and between the three of them, they’ve brought a positive jungle of flowers. Both ladies are rather weepy, which is embarrassing. Can’t even tell them not to fuss, as I am clearly, irrefutably, in every possible way, not all right. What’s worse, them crying makes me want to cry also. It’s becoming rather a habit. Dreadful. Presently Hudders disappears off to find a vase. Something sort of tingles in my brain (got this funny kind of urgency to get my house in order)(trying not to think too hard about that)(much too soon to die again; I’ve only just got back)(twice)(the might die bit is over, surely?)(not going to ask!). 

 

“John, I don’t suppose you could erm.” Should’ve invented a reason before I opened my mouth, “I need a word with Molly.”

 

“With Molly?” John rises from his seat at my side, his chest puffing out a bit as he looks back and forth between Molly and me as if he’d much rather I didn’t. “Okay.”  John steps out of the room and shuts the door behind him. 

 

Molly edges closer to my bed, looking apprehensive but trying not to. “I’m sorry,” she says when we’re alone. 

 

“Thank you, but that isn’t why I wanted to speak to you.” 

 

Her eyes begin to fill again (hold in a sigh), “I really am, though. I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

 

“That isn’t the only thing you’re ever going to say to me again, is it?”

 

Molly sniffles, “I hope not.” 

 

“I’m not angry with you for slapping me. I forgive you. I understand why you did it, though obviously it’d have been much better if you hadn’t. I understand.”

 

Molly wrings her hands, “But-”

 

“I do apologise Molly, but at present I haven’t the strength to hold it against you or to help you absolve yourself. I forgive you. I suggest you move past it.” 

 

She looks dubious, “Well, if you want me to, I’ll try.”

 

“Not that any recurrences would be acceptable or accepted.”

 

“Of course not!” Molly is both blushing and weeping now, and I so wish she wouldn’t, though I suppose it’s good manners to ignore embarrassing autonomic reflexes.

 

Can just reach the box of tissues on my night table. Push it toward her, and she takes a handful and wipes her face, then pours herself a cup of water from the ugly plastic pitcher next to the tissue box. Molly looks a little calmer after that. Must crack on. 

 

Deep breath, “Molly, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a long time now.” Such a staggering collection of emotions passes over her face in the next half second that I nearly lose my train of thought. 

 

She nods, “Okay.”

 

“I just want you to know. I’m gay.”

 

Molly bites her lip, but smooths her expression almost at once (her disappointment stings to look at, though I’d been expecting it)(still really stings), “I thought you might be.”

 

“I’d honestly never thought of it as a secret before. Most people just sort of. Well. Anyway. You’re the first person I’ve ever told.”

 

Molly half smiles, “Had to tell because I’m that thick.”

 

Frown. That isn’t what I was getting at at all. These things are so impossible to see clearly, befuddled by love, “I should have told you before that I couldn’t. Well. I’m sorry for the pain my reticence has caused you. I hope. I hope we can be friends now.”

 

She nods seriously, “I’d really like that.”

 

“So would I.” Smile at her and squeeze her elbow briefly. 

 

“Does John know?” she asks hurriedly as if she’d rather not know but she can’t help asking. 

 

“I don’t know. I haven’t told him.”

 

She fiddles with the end of her plait, “Are you going to?”

 

Shift under the bedding, “I don’t know.” 

 

“Sorry, it’s none of my business.” 

 

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s. Friendly.” 

 

Molly smiles a proper smile. “Friendly,” she says as if testing it out. “Okay.” 

 

…

 

“I expect you’ll be leaving soon,” Sherlock remarked rather pettishly. “Twos?”

 

“Go fish. Are you tired? I suppose I might go back to the flat and have a bath and a sleep, if you want me out of your hair for the night.”

 

“Visiting hours are nearly over, so I suppose you’ve got to be on your way. Your turn, John!”

 

“Sorry, sorry!” I looked down at my cards. “Eights? And I can stay, if you want me to stay. Mycroft fixed it up for me.”

 

Sherlock hissed and flicked an eight of spades at me, “Oh he did, did he?”

 

“Yeah, er. He told them I’m your husband. That’s why I’ve still got this.” I held up my left hand to show him my wedding band. 

 

Sherlock opened his mouth, shut it. Opened it again, “Oh.” He went very pink, “That’s convenient.”

 

“Yeah. Hope you don’t mind. I didn’t think you’d notice, actually.” 

 

“No, of course I don’t mind. Queens?”

 

I passed him my queen of hearts, “All right, good. Because I’m really going to be here as much as you can stand me, and they’d probably have to arrest me to get me out of here.” 

 

Sherlock’s mouth twitched, and he looked down at his little pile of matches, “Very convincingly husbandly, John, thank you.” 

 

I half-laughed, “It really doesn’t put me out at all. You know I would do anything for you, yeah?” I looked at Sherlock until he looked up at me, “Anything, anytime. You’re my best friend. Most in the world, remember?”

 

His expression didn’t exactly change, but his face went very soft somehow, “Best friends, yes.” Sherlock smiled wide, then burst into giggles, “Why shouldn’t I just tell you? This is ridiculous. You love me! Why should I be afraid? This is just stupid! I  _ can  _ tell you; I’m  _ going _ to tell you.”

 

“Tell me what?”

 

“John. I’m gay,” he burst into fresh giggles, then grimaced and put his hand to his ribcage. “Christ, that’s unfair that laughing hurts now.” I was starting to feel rather as if there were some joke afoot and I was the butt of it, but he was enjoying himself so much that I couldn’t help laughing along with him. “What a relief! All we’ve been through! You literally restarted my heart in your bare hands, and I thought I couldn’t tell you.”

 

“Well, not literally. That’s not what happened; your organs didn’t pop out of your body for an airing.”

 

Sherlock laughed til he wheezed, til the tears came into his eyes, and when he’d laughed himself into a hiccoughy relative steadiness, he dropped his cards and reached for my hand. I caught my breath when he took it, but he only pressed it and smiled into my face, “Thank you, John. I’m so glad you’re here.” 

 

He makes things so easy for me, “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” 

 

…

 

Three days after I brought Sherlock home from hospital, I came in from food shopping with my arms full of bags, and heard him from the front door, bellowing something at the top of his voice. 

 

I trotted up the stairs to find Sherlock as near to sprawled as he could get on the sofa, his violin nestled against him, declaiming as loudly as he could so that I rather wanted to put my hands over my ears, “ _ How dull it is to pause, to make an end/To rust unburnish’d not to shine in use!/As though to breathe were life! Life piled on life/Were all too-’” _

 

I set the carrier bags down and went over to the sofa, “What on earth is going on?!”

 

Sherlock pulled an exaggerated moue and held up his bow, “I’ve broken my bow.” 

 

I peered at it to find that it was cracked in the middle, “That’s not good.”

 

Sherlock pressed a hand to his heart, “Where would I be without you to ferry me through these little revelations, John?”

 

I sighed and sat down at the end of the sofa near his feet, “Why is it that you were so much nicer to me when you were in hospital?”

 

Sherlock tossed the ruined bow on the floor and pushed at my thigh with his soles, “I’ll give you three guesses about that, John. Give up? Morphine!”

 

I clenched my jaw, “Oh, so now you can only be pleasant to me when you’re high? Does being a prick really balm your wounds that much?”

 

Sherlock bared his teeth in a sort of snarl, “How can you say that to me? I’ve been fucking shot! I’m in pain all the time, and the only thing I’ve ever known how to do has just been knocked out from under me, so excuse me if I don’t have the patience for every little incredibly obvious fact you feel the need to echo for no reason!”

 

I pressed my hand to the bridge of my nose, “The only thing you’ve ever known how to do?”

 

Sherlock half turned, then grimaced in pain and muffled his face under my Union Jack cushion that had somehow migrated to the sofa from my chair, “Yes, John! You know this! Solving is all I have! Solving is all I am.”

 

“Oh come on. That’s a load of rubbish. You know that’s a load of rubbish, don’t you? That’s not who you are, it’s just a job.”

 

I took the cushion away, and Sherlock glared up at me, “Right, of course, just a job. People like plenty of things about me. I’m a highly sought after dinner guest and a functional member of society!”

 

“Could you just listen to me for two seconds, as this is something I’ve actually got experience in and I might help you if you could pull your head out of your backside long enough to hear me!”

 

Sherlock snatched the cushion back and disappeared under it again, “Oh by all means, John. Do enlighten me.”

 

“You didn’t invent your job because you’re obsessed with solving puzzles-”

 

He hissed impatience through the cushion, “I know, I’m a drama queen. I do remember your wedding.”

 

“I wasn’t going to say that at all. I was going to say you invented your job because you like helping people. Same as me. I didn’t become a doctor because I’m obsessed with stethoscopes. I wanted to help people. And for a while it seemed like I wouldn’t get to do that how I’d meant to. And I. I suppose I felt something like how you feel now. But then I found you. And you helped me find other ways to help people. And eventually I got to be a doctor again. 

 

“So whether you carry on being a detective after you’ve recovered, I know you’ll go on helping people as long as you’re alive.  _ That’s  _ what you have.  _ That’s  _ who you are. But you don’t need to worry about that right now. What you need to focus on is healing, and that means eating loads of lovely meals that your devoted best friend cooks for you and getting plenty of rest. You’ll feel better after I feed you up, and I’ve got all the things for that soup you went on about after the thing with the guy with all those pigeons. And after we’ve had our dinner, we can ring up that place in Cardiff and set an appointment to get you a new bow. All right?”

 

Sherlock lowered the cushion slowly and looked up at me, and his expression was so vulnerable that my frustration slid away from me all in a rush, “I’m sorry, John.”

 

“It’s all right,” I brushed his curls back from his face. 

 

“Thank you.” 

 

“You’re welcome.” 

 

“For all of it, everything you’ve just said and everything you’ve done. Not just the lovely things you’re doing to my hair, though that is heavenly, and I do wish you’d continue for the rest of my natural existence.”

 

I laughed, “I’ve got to cook dinner.” 

 

Sherlock hummed and shut his eyes, “You can do both; you’re very talented.” 

 

“Not unless you want to come and stand next to the stove with me while I do it.”

 

Sherlock sighed and waved me away, “Fine, fine. Live your life and let my hair languish here in your absence.” But there was no real annoyance to his words. 

 

I stood up, and Sherlock let me go, “We’ll eat soon, all right?”

 

“Mmm,” Sherlock agreed. And he pulled his violin to him and plucked its strings dreamily. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Sherlock is reciting is called Ulysses, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.


	3. Chapter 3

“John,” Sherlock gave me a little kick from his chair, and I looked up from my book. 

 

“Mmm?”

 

“I need to talk to you.”

 

“All right,” I dogeared a page and set the book on the side table. 

 

Sherlock scowled, “I hate it when you do that.”

 

I rolled my eyes up at the ceiling, “If you’re only going to complain about how I treat my own books, I’m going back into it.”

 

“No, I have something real to tell you.” Sherlock clasped his hands and considered me for a moment, “I’d like to reiterate my gratitude to you for everything you’ve done for me. I know this has been a very difficult time for you.” 

 

“Not as difficult as it’s been for you, I suspect.”

 

He smiled, “Well, depends on how you look at it. I’m not finished, John. Don’t make jokes, or I’ll never get through it.”

 

“Sorry, sorry. Go on, then.” 

 

Sherlock leaned in, his steepled fingers planted under his chin, “I think there’s still something rather hanging over us, don’t you agree?”

 

“Erm,” my mouth went dry. “Is there? What’s that, then?”

 

Sherlock pushed himself carefully to his feet and showed me a loose tile in the mantelpiece. After some tugging, it came away in his hand and revealed a shallow recess with a sealed envelope inside. Sherlock took the envelope out and handed it to me. I tore it open. 

 

Inside was a capped syringe and two dark vials. My hand began to shake so that I had to ball a fist and press it to my thigh. I looked up at him, “You’re giving these to me?”

 

He nodded, “I think that’s the only hiding place you don’t know about. You’ve been in and out of the bison skull like it was an ice cream shop, so I know you know about that one.” 

 

“How did you-oh, the dust?”

 

He grinned and nodded, “My blogger is learning.” 

 

I looked down at the sad little packet in my hands, “You’re giving it up, then? For good?” 

 

Sherlock raised his right hand, “For good.” He sucked his bottom lip thoughtfully, “I told you once that you keep me right. So. I suppose I’d better. Stay right.” 

 

I put the envelope on top of my book and stood, “Do you think it’d hurt if I gave you a very gentle hug?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes went wide. “It would probably hurt, yes,” he said reluctantly. 

 

“Oh. Well, there’s always next-”

 

“But perhaps,” he interrupted. “A kiss instead?” 

 

Before I could let my stupid brain interfere, I leaned in and brushed the gentlest kiss on the corner of Sherlock’s lovely mouth. 

 

He caught my hand when we parted and pressed it, “Thank you, John.” I couldn’t quite find the words to answer, so I only squeezed him back. Still, we seemed to be in very good understanding. 

 

…

  
  
  
  


Are you guarding me? -SH 

 

What?

 

Why are you sleeping on the sofa? -SH 

 

Because it’s gone 2 and sleep is what I do in the middle of the night. Have you not heard of it? I’ll find you some YouTube videos.

 

Why aren’t you sleeping upstairs, when you’ve got a perfectly good bed in your bedroom? -SH 

 

I deduce that you’re guarding me. -SH 

 

You’re incredibly clever. Can I go back to sleep, now?

 

You may come in here, if you like. There’s plenty of bed for everyone. -SH

 

Actually not everyone but everyone who lives here. -SH 

 

In there with you?

 

Well I’m not leaving. -SH 

 

Are you sure?

 

Have you ever known me to offer something I wasn’t sure about? -SH 

 

…

 

“This isn’t a sex thing,” Sherlock said in a ringing whisper as I thumped onto the bed next to him. 

 

“We’re both awake, so there’s really no need to whisper, is there? I didn’t imagine it was a sex thing.” 

 

“I know you go in for those sorts of conventionalities, and I do like to please you, John,” Sherlock answered at his normal volume. 

 

I considered that, “Are you talking about whispering or sex?”

 

“Whispering. We’ve established that we are not having sex this evening.” 

 

“So fucking accommodating.” I laughed at myself, “Sorry, this is actually really nice of you. Thanks.” 

 

“I didn’t want you to think I was taking advantage of you in your hour of need, John. Only I don’t want you pulling something in your neck sleeping all squashed up on that sofa. And it’s too shallow to have a proper deep sleep on anyway. You need your rest.”

 

I yawned, “Thanks, I appreciate your scruples.” 

 

Sherlock pulled on the blankets, “Is that side of the bed acceptable to you? I noticed you laid on my right when we slept together before.” 

 

“S’fine Sherlock. Everything’s perfect. You’re a charming host. When did we sleep together before?”

 

“On your stag night,” Sherlock said quietly. “We fell asleep on the stairs together.” 

 

“Oh. Right.” 

 

Sherlock was silent for a bit, but somehow I knew he wasn’t sleeping. “She isn’t coming back,” he said presently. “She isn’t even in the country anymore. Mycroft’s sent her to Belarus. Apparently she assassinated some ambassador there, and they’ve been really anxious to see her again.” 

 

I sighed a long sigh through my nose, “I know she isn’t coming back.”

 

“Then why? Moriarty’s dead, and I’ve got the brain matter on my shoes to prove it.”

 

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock. This isn’t exactly a bedtime story, you know.” 

 

Sherlock drummed his feet on the mattress, “I’m thirsty for knowledge, John. Consider it a metaphorical glass of water.” 

 

“You really want to know?”

 

“Obviously!”

 

I pushed up on my elbow to look into Sherlock’s face, though I could scarcely see his features in the dark, “You had nightmares. In hospital. And since I was right there, I could usually talk you through them. I just. I got to hate the idea of you being afraid and alone. I can hear you from the sofa. I can’t hear you upstairs. So here I am.”

 

“Oh,” said Sherlock in his smallest voice. “Thank you.”

 

“Of course.” 

 

Sherlock linked a couple of his fingers through mine, and I leaned back against my pillow again, and this time I did think he was asleep. 

 

“John,” Sherlock said suddenly, his whisper returned. “Are we in love?”

 

I nearly choked on nothing, “Because we’re in bed together?”

 

There was a soft shhh of Sherlock’s curls against his pillow as he shook his head, “I’m not a child, John. I know what love is. Is that why you’re looking after me like this?”

 

“I’m looking after you, because you need it. And yes, of course I love you. You’re my-”

 

“John,” Sherlock interrupted seriously. “Please don’t pretend you think I don’t know what I’m asking.” He swallowed, “I’m in love with you. Are you in love with me?”

 

I rolled to face him, and he was already looking at me, “Yes.” 

 

Even through the darkness, I could see Sherlock’s face relax into a wide smile, “Lovely.” He caught my hand and squeezed it, and I squeezed him back. “But you didn’t want me to know,” Sherlock said after a moment. “Why shouldn’t you want me to know?”

 

“Because,” I hesitated. “Because you’re hurt. And you’re depending on me just to help you live. You’re grateful, and you’re a naturally affectionate person, actually and.” 

 

“You think it isn’t real,” Sherlock’s voice was stricken. “Oh John, how  _ could  _ you?”

 

I felt like a complete pig, “Not. Not not real. I didn’t say that. Only. I just. I can’t take advant-fucking hell! I just. It isn’t always going to be the way it is right now, and when you’re. When you’re yourself again, I don’t want you feeling like you’re stuck in something you don’t really want, because I was selfish, and I jumped the gun.” 

 

To my complete shock, Sherlock answered me by bursting into tears, “You’re never going to believe I really want you, are you? I’m in my right mind, John! Do you really think I’m so childish or so inhuman that I have no idea what my real feelings are? I  _ died  _ for you and I came back for you and I folded a thousand fucking napkin swans, because I thought it might make you happy for a moment, and I don’t know how fucking else to show you that I love you! What do you want me to do? Because I can’t take you pushing me away anymore. It’s agony! Believe it or not, I am actually capable of emotional pain!” 

 

“Well, I got fucking tricked, didn’t I?!” I rather started at the loudness of my own voice and continued in a whisper, “I’m not a child or a fool or a robot or whatever else it is you think I’m calling you, and I got tricked because someone said the right things to me when I was out of my mind with grief, and I got tricked into thinking I was in love, and it nearly fucking killed you! So excuse me for wanting to be sure you really do want me, and that doesn’t make me heartless, it makes me not a fucking rapist, Sherlock!” 

 

Sherlock wiped his face on the sheets, “You’re not Mary, John. And she didn’t hurt me because you love me. She hurt me because she wanted. She wanted me dead. Because that’s what she does. That’s not who you are, John.”

 

“Well I’m trying not to be!” My breath was coming hard and fast, and my left hand was trembling like a leaf in a wind. Sherlock rotated carefully and took something from his night table. He turned back to me and pushed a glass of water toward me. I accepted it and promptly wobbled half its contents down my front. I took a deep breath, “Shit.” 

 

“Let’s get out of bed, John,” Sherlock said gently. “Come on. Cup of tea. Let’s get up.” 

 

“Okay.” 

 

…

 

“Ergh, what is this?” John looks up at me over the brim of his mug. 

 

Rub his shoulder, “It’s chamomile, John. I’m not giving you a dose of caffeine in the middle of a panic attack.” 

 

John snorts, “Is that what this is?”

 

“Didn’t the colour tip you off?”

 

John rubs a hand up his face and roughs his hair, “That isn’t what I meant.” 

 

Squeeze his shoulder a little more firmly, “You aren’t a predator, John.”

 

John sighs and sips from his mug, “I’m really. I’m trying not to be.”

 

Sit down next to him at the table so that our faces are level and stroke his free hand until he looks into my eyes, “John. Listen to me. This isn’t new. I didn’t decide I was in love with you three weeks ago because you poured out or you helped me tie my shoes. I’m just. Tired of wasting my life. I want to move forward with you. You mean the world to me. I love you.” 

 

John sets his mug down, “I love you, too. I.” He hesitates, “I want to spend my life with you. I just. I have no idea what this is meant to look like, and it’s getting pretty obvious that I’m horrible at making it up as I go along. I don’t know what do to, Sherlock. We have got to stop hurting each other.” 

 

I want to hold him so badly. I hate that she took this from us. “Yes. You’re right. We will. We’ll call Ella in the morning, and she can help us find someone to see about our. Relationship.” At that, John gives me the littlest smile, and I can’t help leaning over and hugging him, nuzzle my face into his hair and kiss it, and I know I’ll only be able to do it for a moment (aches already) but god it is heaven. 

 

John sighs against me. I can actually feel his heart rate slowing, Quite an addicting sensation. He strokes my back and turns his head into my neck to murmur against my skin, “I do love you. It’s such a relief to tell you so. I love you, Sherlock.” 

 

“I love you, John.” Ache in my chest is growing sharper. Straighten up reluctantly and take his hand, “Come back to bed with me? Are you ready?”

 

John stands, “Yeah. Ready.” 

 

John follows me back into the bedroom and lies down beside me. He laces our fingers together and turns onto his side, “Could I. May I kiss you good night?”

 

“Please,” eagerly. 

 

John kisses me, a quick, dry brush. But I catch his jaw in my hand and part my lips and ohhhh the way he kisses me back lingering and warm as sunlight. The joy tingles and bubbles and rises in me like champagne foam, so that I can scarcely keep from laughing against his mouth. With a sigh of satisfaction, John sinks back, still clutching my hand. He lays his head on my pillow, and before I’ve even shut my eyes to sleep, I feel as if I’ve slipped into a dream. Like I might float up and bob against my bedroom ceiling or sail out of the window and fly off over London. But I hold tight to my John and whether I float or fly or stay here in my bed, he’ll be just beside me. 


End file.
